The Hurricane I'll Never Outrun
by Foibles and Fables
Summary: Lexie has an announcement, but Mark can't handle it. Not today. Not on April sixth. Mark/Lexie, hints of Mark/Addison.


**This was written as a part of the Grey's Anatomy Hiatus Exchange on LiveJournal.**

**Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. This writing is for entertainment purposes only and is not for profit.  
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_You're the finest thing that I've done  
__The hurricane I'll never outrun  
I could wait around for the dust to still  
__But I don't believe that it ever will_

Lexie burst into Mark's office that late morning with news she had been trying very hard to contain buzzing and tingling on her lips. What she found after she stepped inside surprised her.

She almost didn't recognize the man behind the desk. He didn't look like himself. At all. He was Mark, but not the Mark she had long known. He looked sallow, drawn-in, and pale, a far cry from the man with whom she had shared a bed just the previous night.

His head was turned to the side, gazing broodingly at the drizzly midday Seattle skyline through the large window. His skin was pulled tight against his cheekbones and he looked absolutely miserable. His jaw was taut, and his normally playful ice-blue eyes were darkened with anger, hurt, and longing all at the same time. A stone mask. He was drumming a pen against the mahogany desktop in a quick and spiteful rhythm.

Surly. Surly was the only word that could be used to describe his demeanor, a demeanor that Lexie decided in mid-speech wasn't a good one to hear this news in. But the short sentence was already three-quarters of the way out, and she would sound dumb if she stopped talking then and he would be able to guess what was coming next anyway so she pressed on. Breathlessly exhilarated, filled with the relief of finally letting her words hit the air, she told him.

"I'm pregnant."

The pen fell from his hand and clattered onto the polished ruddy wood. He turned his head to look at her directly, eyes wide and mouth open with incredulity, lines deeper than normal making creases in his forehead. He looked almost horrified, and Lexie swallowed and bit her lip. Definitely not the reaction she had been hoping for. Quickly, she backpedaled.

"Well, at least I _think_ I am," she stammered, growing nervous under his less than thrilled stare. "I mean, I feel pregnant. I've been nauseous, even though I haven't actually thrown up yet, and my boobs hurt. Like, really hurt. And they feel bigger, too, but I'm probably just making that up." She laughed uneasily, a feeble attempt to change his expression. It didn't. She continued, speaking at a mile-a-minute pace. "And the test I got from the drug store turned out positive so I probably am pregnant but it's not absolutely certain yet. Not until my appointment with Dr. Abernathy, which is in-" she paused to breathe and check her watch, "about fifteen minutes. And I was actually going to ask if you wanted to come with me but you seem like you're busy so I'll, um, I'll go by myself. That's…that's what I wanted to tell you," she concluded lamely, cringing at the fact that his distraught gaze not only persisted, but had grown more intense. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

Mark sighed deeply and placed his elbows on his desk, running both of his hands through his hair. He rubbed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms against them. The pressure didn't do much to alleviate the throbbing in his head, but it was better than nothing. Lexie's news repeated itself over and over in his mind, relentless, like she was trying to rub it in, even though that wasn't the case at all and he knew that wasn't the case at all. Still, if she would have picked any other week, any other _day _to let him know, he might have reacted differently. He might have been excited. But not today. His stomach ached with the revelation, and it was taking all of his strength to not give in to the desire to slam his fists against the hard wooden surface beneath him; his arms were shaking, muscles shuddering under his rapidly-deteriorating self-control.

But, paradoxically, a bitterly amused smile threatened at his mouth. He loved her, and this was all so quintessentially _her_. Timing had never been one of Lexie Grey's strong suits. The fact that it was just like her to do something like this permeated his foul mood, if only in the slightest way possible.

The silence lingered for a few more excruciating seconds, weighing over them like a leaden blanket. Lexie shifted uncomfortably. Mark watched her like a hawk. She considered bolting for a minute, but leaving the situation in the place it was in would be disastrous. So she rooted herself to the floor, even though every all of her impulses were telling her to get the heck out of there, and stuttered in a tiny voice, "I…I don't know, I'm happy. I thought this was a good thing. I mean, this wasn't planned and we're not married but we don't _have_ to be married or anything. It's…it's good." Her eyes widened, suddenly, and she approached the desk slowly and fell into one of the chairs across from him. "Unless _you_ don't think it's a good thing. Unless you're not happy. Then I really don't know, it's a different story entirely." She took in a ragged breath and bent over at her middle, placing a hand on her forehead. She could feel a sweat breaking out on her forehead, and an unpleasant turning in her stomach blindsided her. "And now I think I'm going to puke."

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Lexie…" he murmured, leaning back in his chair and placing a hand over his eyes. He rubbed it down his entire face, stretching the skin and scratching against his goatee. She was scared and trying to hide it – he could tell by the frantic and nearly ashamed look on her face – and what he had to say would do nothing but add to her freaking out. But, he would have to tell her. It would only be fair.

Lexie placed her hands over her mouth, folded in a prayer-like position. She sighed through them and avoided eye contact. "Look, I'm terrified too," she admitted. "And I know that this is sudden, but I need you, Mark." His heart swelled for only a second before reverting to the dim place it was in. "I have no idea what I'm going to do. I don't know what to think about it. That's why I need your opinion, or advice or whatever. But you sitting there all silent with your huffy sighing and glaring isn't helping at all," she told him. "So, whether it's good or not, I need you to tell me what you think. I need to know what you want. Because I need you. If…" She let it trail off. "I'll need you to be in this with me. Please."

Mark's voice picked up, raspy from disuse, dark and soft, but steady. "Look, Lexie." He raised an eyebrow at her, trying hard to keep calm. "I'm happy." He was. "But it's…" He shook his head out of frustration with the horrible feelings attacking his chest. Lexie watched him all the while, eyes shining and pathetic. He swore harshly and regretted it immediately. "It's awfully fucking hard to be Mr. Ecstatic Possible Dad-to-Be when today – _today_, Lex," he hissed, emphasizing the repeated word with an open palm gently slammed on his desk, "I should have a two-year-old child."

Saying it aloud only affirmed it more. Mark choked back the prickly pain that accompanied it, quieting it to a dull throb; he strained so that his face only contorted a little.

His words echoed and hung in the air throughout the silence that followed. Lexie stared at him, stunned, jaw hanging open and unable to form any sound other than the imperceptible croaking noise coming from the back of her throat. Her mind raced, bouncing from point to point with impossible speed, searching frenetically for the how and why.

Then, she remembered the date.

It was April sixth. The same day he was this miserable last year. The day the year before that when he was probably even worse – when she wasn't around to see it. The day that was terrible for the reason that they both understood, but usually left unsaid. Lexie had been too preoccupied with pregnancy tests and nerves and work and a million other things to even notice that it was today. A paralyzing combination of guilt, sympathy, resentment, and jealousy (both of the latter she felt bad for feeling, but couldn't help it) combusted in the hollow of her chest.

Mark wasn't looking at her. His eyes were turned downward to his hands on his desk. Even though he was motionless, he was squirming on the inside. He didn't deal well with the embarrassing and vulnerable place he was in; it still wasn't him, still wasn't something he was used to. Mark Sloan still didn't do this kind of pitiable thing where he was depressed and someone comforted him. The thought of it made him sick, but so did the implications of the date. He wasn't sure which made him sicker.

He should have just kept his mouth shut. She should have just left him alone when she saw what kind of state he was in. But maybe he didn't want to be alone. The whirlwind of sentiments dizzied him.

"Oh, god, Mark." Her voice was barely there, her heart wrenching in her chest. "I'm…I'm so sorry," she apologized, knowing it sounded and was completely inadequate. She moved jerkily to place her hand on his. It felt cold and hard under her palm. He permitted the touch, but did nothing to return it.

There they sat in silence for a few moments. Lexie's heart broke more and more with each passing second that she watched him. His face periodically twisted and untwisted, tightened and relaxed, as he tried to contain the multitude of repressed thoughts back into the compartments he had been trying so hard to make insignificant. She had opened the floodgate, and gush of emotions pouring into his chest didn't feel very good.

Lexie swallowed hard when she felt his hand shaking with restraint and effort beneath hers. She couldn't let him do this. She had to help, or at least try to. "Do you want to…talk about it?" she offered, cringing (as did he), completely aware that he did not and that she just probably made things a lot worse. But, what else could she have said? What could she have done? In this situation, she couldn't empathize or understand what he was going through; she also knew that sympathy was the last thing he wanted. She knew him.

Mark remained motionless still – if he didn't move his eyes, then they couldn't betray him. The dreaded silence was still hanging heavily in the office when Lexie glanced again at her watch. She now had six minutes to make it to her appointment, and, given the situation, she couldn't be in suspense any longer. She hated to leave, but she had to.

"I'm…" she whispered, biting her lip and looking anxiously out the window. The sky had grown grayer and the rain was hitting the window a bit harder than when she had told him the news. "I'm going to be late."

She slowly removed her hand from his, stood halfway, and, reluctantly, paused for a second to give him a final look. He didn't make a move. With a silent sigh of defeat, eyes clouding at the bottom edges with what she had done, what he had done, and what had been done in the past, she turned and took a step toward the door. Then another, and another.

But, before she could take a fourth, she heard him speak. It caught her in mid-stride and she whirled around to face him again, teetering awkwardly in place with the force of her spin.

"It would have been a boy," he had said. While he had spoken he had been looking in her direction but not _at_ her, eyes gazing at something invisible in the distance. After it registered that he indeed just said that, his expression transformed from hauntingly blank to entirely bewildered; after all, he was Mark Sloan and Mark Sloan didn't do Talking (especially not Talking About the Baby). "Just to spite his mother from the moment he came out. But it would have been alright, because he would have had her hair." He recoiled with every word that escaped from his mouth – they were unstoppable, flowing like shameless tears. He had always been taught that a person's problems were his alone, and that he should fend for himself. Putting his burdens on someone else was unnatural and foreign.

Lexie gaped at him, forgetting how to breathe for just a moment. In the year and a half that she had known him, including the year she had been with him, this was the most he had ever said about that part of his life. It had always been there, looming over the two of them, but was never addressed. To Lexie, it seemed bittersweet; she was elated that he was talking to _her_ about it, but was saddened and angry that something like this needed to be talked about in the first place.

Even with all of his flaws – and he had a lot (but so did she, so did everyone) – it was impossible for her to see how anyone couldn't want him.

"His name would have been Carson." He allowed himself a bitter smile, blue eyes piercing Lexie's as his lip curled into a sneer. "She always talked about how much she liked that name, for either a boy or a girl." He laughed, then, almost a bark, and Lexie jumped. "Not for mine, I guess."

Lexie wanted to say something comforting, but all that came out was a stuttered version of his name. He held up a hand to stop her. If he was going to bare his soul and all of that bullshit, which he was still in minor disbelief that he was, he was at least going to do it right. He was going to finish with something he had thought out extensively. He had spent many a sleepless night staring up at a dark ceiling, numb to the warm presence curled against him. As he peered into the nothingness, he began wondering what his life would have been like, what he could change to prevent it from happening again, and feeling guilty for it as Lexie slept heavily beside him. Her thoughts were pleasantly clear of doom and gloom, he had assumed, while his still managed to become stuck on an April sixth past.

"I might have had no way of relating to him, but he would have been my son and that would have been enough." Sadness penetrated his voice for the first time, causing a tiny waver in the words that Lexie might not have picked up on if she hadn't known him so well. "I might have been a terrible father, at first. But I would have learned. I would have lived up to all of the damn expectations." The anger came through, then, less subtly than the sadness. His nostrils flared and his tone hardened to ice. "Who knows, maybe I would have just always been a terrible father. But I would have tried." He punctuated each word clearly. "I would have tried my best to give him everything my father didn't give me. All of the stuff a kid deserves and is entitled to just because you made him and he exists, even if it isn't convenient." He hesitated, faltered. Forced himself to breathe, albeit shakily. Went on. His voice dropped to a murmur. "I really think I would have loved him."

With that, he sighed and returned to his position of wretched misery with his head in his hands. Lexie looked down at her shoes, digging the toe of the left one into the navy carpet.

"So you think about it a lot." It was soft, and phrased as a statement rather than a question. He had left no room for interpretation. It was a long time before he answered, practically as quiet as Lexie.

"A lot." It was his biggest success turned into his worst failure. It defined a part of the man he had become.

"And you still miss her?" Even softer than before, for good reason.

"No." It definitely sounded like a lie, so he immediately came out with the truth. "Yes. I mean, she's…she's Addison." He said her name as if the reason why was obvious, and Lexie felt an immediate blow to her gut. But, then, she got a hold of herself. Mark loved _her_ now, and he had made that known. But she still understood missing someone, even if you didn't love them.

She still missed George.

Then, carrying the immense weight of April sixth and gravity between her shoulders, she approached him. She moved, closing the gap slowly, with grace that wasn't characteristic of her, so much that it surprised her and caused Mark to stare. Her eyes were sad, but with this glimmer of resigned hope in them that Mark loved and hated at the same time. Lexie crossed the threshold of his desk, standing next to his chair – he instinctually swiveled around to face her.

"I'm sorry, Mark," she repeated in a throaty whisper, standing timidly before him, cupping his cheek in her hand "God, I can't even imagine what you're feeling," she admitted with candor. Gingerly, she went on. "But, this baby…if there's a baby, this baby won't be like the last. It won't end the same way. I can promise you that. This is your chance to prove yourself right. This is your chance to make good on those promises you just told me, because I know you can." He leaned into her hand in the slightest way possibly. Skin slid against skin, barely creating pressure, surface tension causing nerves to jump and react and remind both of them that despite the different incidents they had survived, they were still alive and existing and breathing.

"Second chances don't erase first failures," he told her, reciting it as if it had been ingrained in his mind since childhood, and it probably was - her heart broke for him even more.

"I know," she replied simply. And she did know, all too well. Second chances were few and far between; only some of them were truly fulfilling.

When he stood, he stood like an old man, like it had been days since he had been upright. It was slow, bent at the waist for a long time until he finally straightened to his full height, wincing painfully as if the motion was as exhausting as running a marathon. Still, he had enough strength to take her into his arms and hold her tightly against her, and he clung to her body heat and that trace of life that may or may not have been there and that he wanted so badly to be there but was at the same time so afraid of wanting. If he wanted it, the world might take it away and then what would become of him?

Lexie sighed softly with relief and comfort, hooking his arms around his chest to hold him in the broadest way possible. She grasped his scrubs in both of her fists, relishing the feeling of the scratchy material underneath her fingers and against her palms. She rested her head in the crook of his neck, her cheek against the patch of skin at the start of his shoulder that his shirt didn't cover, and she could feel blood and warmth pulsing there and she knew that he would be okay. His eyes closed tiredly as he inhaled the scent of her shampoo – vanilla, a scent of sickening comfort that he shouldn't have been feeling that day. His limbs felt heavy, but he liked where they were and how they were holding Lexie against him by the waist, flush with him, and how she understood the grief even though she didn't understand exactly how it felt. It was a different kind of hurt than she knew, but she knew hurt and that was good enough for him.

"I really am happy," he murmured, sedated by the closeness, his lips touching her ear so that he could almost taste the skin.

"I know." Her breath against his neck felt sweet and made him shiver. "I am too. You're going to make a great father."

Her whisper was so honest and believing and confident that he had to swallow the lump in his throat and blink away the tears that filled his eyes. It would have felt so good to let them go.

His only thought was that she obviously didn't know what she was getting herself into.

"I'm not going to buy a calendar with the due date or anything," he said softly and gruffly, a promise to both her and to himself. "At least, not until I'm sure…until you're sure…"

He couldn't go on. But she didn't need him to.

Then, he kissed her – close-lipped (he wasn't capable of more).

But when he did, she felt his hand brush fleetingly over her stomach and it was enough and it was wonderful.

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Hours later, Mark paced nervously in front of his desk. His steps fell into a specific and repetitive pattern: left, right, left, right, left turn – right, left, right, left, left turn. Subconsciously, he hoped he wasn't wearing a lopsided rectangle in the carpet. Consciously, he was far more concerned with the past few hours, with what was said and shown and with what was definitely there. His front teeth were clasped to his bottom lip in a nervous gesture that he had picked up from Lexie somewhere along the line (because she could teach a thing or two of her own). His right hand had a white-knuckled grip on his left behind his back.

And there was this tiny, but incredibly dense, ball of excitement and pride and nerves in the dead center of his chest. Every so often, his heart would jump-start and the ball would inflate like a balloon, too big for his chest and in the way of his lungs. But before it reached the base of his throat, he would have to force himself to condense it again. If he let it get too big, if he let himself feel everything that it contained, someone would come along with a needle and pop that balloon and it would be gone forever.

Eventually, however, after a few laps, the muted excitement got the best of him. With jerky and uncharacteristically gawky movements, he made his way to the front of his desk and rested his weight on the edge. His legs tingled and throbbed, restless and wanting to keep walking; his fingertips drummed involuntarily on his thighs.

He fumbled around in his pocket for a moment before he curled his fingers around his cell phone. He pulled it out, flipped it open, and, taking a deep breath, pressed the button that brought up his address book.

There it was. At the very top of the alphabetical list, the first contact, as it had been for a long time. A. Addison. Appropriate. It had gone long uncalled, and it had been forever since he had even thought about dialing it. But that changed halfway through the trip back from Dr. Abernathy's office to his own.

Things had ended between them on uneven terms – with April sixth, she had gained a major leg-up on him. She wasn't proud of what she did, he was well aware of that, but it still happened and still gave her something similar to an upper hand. Their relationship could never be the same as it was, as good and carefree as it was in the very _very_ beginning, when there was friendship and before there was cheating, until they were on even ground again, face-to-face, with no more guilt or shame or hurt. An even score.

It was like driving too fast down a highway at midnight. The headlights briefly illuminated the physical things like smiles and laughter and words exchanged between them that were too enthusiastic to, after everything, be true; the light also swept past the intangibles that they shared and lost, like trust and faith and broken moral compasses. When the light shone on these things, they were sometimes washed out and dissolved by the harsh brightness. Maybe this would cause day to break.

Maybe this would finally make them even again.

Heart hammering, he called the number. It rang forever and he almost hung up.

But, then, through some spark of faith that was simultaneously cruel and kind, she answered.

"_Hello?_" Her voice sounded the same in through the phone as it did in person, an alto with a soothing ring to it. He was incapacitated for a moment, unable to speak, and she repeated herself (a bit edgy).

"Addison," he finally croaked, struggling to speak around his Adam's apple, which felt like it had swollen to five times its normal size.

It took her a long time to answer this time. "_Mark_." She said his name like she was trying to balance her weight equally on the second or third step into a patch of thin ice. It was soft, with sadness and regret and trepidation. He could tell that she was aware of the fact that it was April sixth and maybe, just maybe, she was feeling as miserable as she was.

With no precursor, the sentence spilled from his mouth. It was singularly simple and definitive, and felt like a release.

"Lexie is pregnant."

It was an end for them but, he hoped, also a new beginning.

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Exactly seven months later, to the day, Daniel Brendan Grey-Sloan came hurtling into the lives and hearts of his parents, family, and friends. He arrived three weeks early, at six pounds, eight ounces, and eighteen inches long. He brought with him rosy cheeks and almost a full head of dark hair, along with the awkwardly flailing limbs and tearless wailing of a newborn who is not accustomed to the big scary world just yet. Lexie, suddenly a mother (with the very sweaty forehead and misty eyes to prove it) held him first. She kissed his head and told him over and over again that she loved him more than anything in the world.

His screeching would subside into quiet whimpers when she spoke, and sometimes he would stop altogether. Lexie would laugh, and there would be tears streaming down her cheeks as she did. Mark watched them from a safe distance, not too close but not too far away – a step and a half from the bed. His eyes were transfixed on the bundle in Lexie's arms. His son. God, he was a _father_ now. Right now, he looked like Lexie, with a cute little nose and her hair. But maybe he would grow to look like Mark, or like his father, or maybe like Thatcher. There were already so many possibilities. He swallowed. His heart wouldn't stop beating and screaming for this child. His mind was a bit farther behind, trying to process that the baby that Lexie was cradling in the gentle bend of her arm was his. It was absurd. He needed to tell someone that it shouldn't have been allowed, to tell them to find the child a new father before it was too late.

But, there he was. A bold and bright streak against the velvety night sky. His greatest success so far.

As Mark studied the boy with bated breath, everything was so damn real. After months of cravings and maternity clothes and name discussions and fluttery movements that eventually evolved into kicks aimed directly at the bladder, he was really there and it wasn't just a dream like Mark sometimes imagined it was.

Lexie smiled at Mark, another two tears spilling over and rolling down her cheeks. The sunlight from the window hit them and caused them to glint. It wasn't until he thought about it that he realized that he was grinning as well.

Daniel was beautiful and perfect. It sounded cliché, but he was a miracle, in every sense of the word. He was the completion of a circle, a flawless link between the beginning and the end.

Still, his birth did not erase all of the heartache. April sixth was still as real as he was, as was all of the resentment and dread that accompanied it. But, now, there was also a November sixth to celebrate. For the rest of the year, pain and joy would intermingle and coexist, struggling against and strengthening one another and making life _life_. And, Mark thought, if that was the best it would ever be, that was simply fantastic.

When Mark held his son for the first time, the baby felt impossibly small and fragile and he was still terrified that he was going to permanently damage him. But, when the baby hiccupped and settled himself into a snuggly position in the crook of Mark's arm, grasping Mark's shirt in his small fist, it already started getting better. Gently touching the baby's ridiculously tiny hands with his forefinger, gazing into the unfocused, milky blue eyes that had barely even been open and knew nothing about heartbreak or regret or April sixth yet, he was completely and utterly sure that he loved Daniel Grey-Sloan.

And, for the first time, he was completely and utterly sure that he would have loved Carson Mongomery-Sloan.


End file.
